Angel of the Dead
by Von Uriken
Summary: Some people just need a reason to survive.
1. Check

"A fuck-ton of zombies?" Bill asks sarcastically, slipping his last magazine into his M16 with trembling, blood soaked hands. "What kind of number is that?"

"Look," Louis replies from where he's standing against the door. There's an air of desperation to his voice, and it's not like him to get so riled up, at least not anymore. "You asked what I saw, and I'm telling you, I saw a fuck-ton of zombies."

Bill opens his mouth to scold the man, but it's Francis who cuts him off. "He's right. I looked out when I was downstairs, and that is a fuck-ton of zombies."

"Did they have anything?" I ask, cutting into the conversation myself. Francis has returned from his little trek, and I'd asked him to look for something for me. He gives me a rather cocky grin before tossing a can my way. I hardly manage to catch it without dropping my pistol.

"Might be a bit warm, but cola is cola."

"Heaven in a can," I sigh wistfully, popping the tab on it. I ignore the fact that I leave a bloodied fingerprint right where my mouth lands, and this drink is long since flat, warmer than my food had been, and tastes like a car battery.

I can see Bill looking over me with a pursed smile. I'm sure he's glad that I have this little moment to myself, sad that this life has been forced on me, or feels nostalgia about a time long gone. Whatever it is, it only lasts a moment before he turns and looks out the window.

"It's going to get dark soon, we should set up here and rest."

Louis automatically shakes his head vehemently. "Nu-uh. Not with a fuck-ton of zombies in the parking lot. We have to move."

Before Bill can even open his mouth, Francis is agreeing. With three scared men in my care, there's little I can do to make any point, so I've long since stopped trying. I don't care to say that even if we do get the ladder across the alley to make our escape, there will probably be as many zombies in the next building. I don't care to say if we board up the doors we'll be woken up in less than five minutes by something breaking in.

I'm tired. It's been weeks since I last slept, the pistols at my side have two bullets between the two of them, and there's a body that ate a bullet lying in the bed they expect to occupy. I can feel the stench rising off me, but I just don't care, not anymore.

I can't feel my legs when I'm running anyway, and after that last hunter got a good swipe on me, that's a good thing. The three of them are arguing even more heatedly now, and I'm sure Bill's own opinion is that we need to rest for me, because I need to.

"We can make use of that old clock-" he's saying when I cut him off.

"Bill. We need to go."

He turns to me, a question in his eyes, but I nod and stand, groaning as I put weight on my injured leg. The blood from Bill's chest has leaked down his arms and slicks his rifle. Louis lost his sense of smell and taste two days ago, along with his eyebrows and a piece of his cheek. Francis whines every time he has to sit down because a "hunter raped him."

We're a sorry bunch, but we're almost at the city limits, and that's something to be proud of.

* * *

Goodbye civilization, I'll miss you.

* * *

_Pow! Sploosh! Ker-click._

_Pow! Sploosh! Ker-click._

_Click. Uh-oh. Click. Click-click-click._

Not now, any time but now.

The last zombie turns my way, face contorted in a drooling snarl with empty eyes glaring straight into my head. _Food_, his empty glare seems to say before he unleashes that unearthly howl and rushes me.

I still have a single bullet to my pistols, but by the time I reach down the snarling mess is already on me in a flying tackle. I barely manage to flip his weight off me before we land and he ends up chomping a mouthful of dead grass. My pistols are forgotten, and I scramble away, reaching for anything, anything, that could help me.

Before the moment is gone he's on me again, mottled grey flesh breaking off as I claw him back and mouth open and rasping as he tries to take a chomp out of my throat. Just as his teeth graze my neck I swing my other hand up and a dull _clomp_ comes from his head.

Have you ever killed a man by beating his head in with a rock? It turns out that it really doesn't matter whether he's living or undead, it leaves the same impression.

Only after I take the fourth strike and the stone is dripping with blood and brains do I realize what I just did. My throat locks up, my eyes can't close, they can't look away. He's staring at me and I just can't look away.

I turn and run, not from the screeching dead, but from his damning eyes. Unable to catch my breath, unable to see, hear, or feel, after I'd just cracked a man's skull in two, I end up resting against a slick stone wall, my hands shaking in shock.

_He's dead. He was already dead. And you will be too._ I just have to remind myself that. He was already dead, and soon I'll be too. Mostly because I was busy trying to catch up with Francis when I shot off those pursuers, and now I've run the other way for who knows how long and I'm between two warehouses in who-knows where with no ammo, no friends, and no hope.

It doesn't take me long to hear the telltale rasping screech of a hunter either. I think that's the cough of a smoker too.

_No. No, no, no. I refuse._ I've been running well over a month now, there's no way I'll die here.

Unable to accept my fate I jog ahead, my lungs already long since past the point of burning. Out of the alley, take a left, down two blocks. There's the biggest building in this little district, a six story office building no doubt in charge of the manufacturing and shipping around here. If there's any chance I have of surviving it's there.

I hope so. Bill would know what to do. Francis would protect me here. Louis would somehow, somehow slip us away with no one the wiser. But I had to be stupid and sentimental, just because I bashed a man's brains out. I shut it out of my brain and run.

The undead are slow to react when I'm not shooting them or flashing lights in their eyes. That gives me the advantage, and just the amount of time I need. By the time I hear their howl behind me I'm already in the back door of the building and heading for the stairway.

_But, if they trap me this early…_ _Think, Zoey, think._

As I stop to think I see one crossing through the back parking lot. Not just one, but as the boys would say, a fuck-ton of them sprinting towards the back door where I'm standing. The door is small and confined, and that many…

I don't even consider the ramifications as I pull out my last Molotov and light it, tossing the flaming bottle just outside the door where the flames spread high and block out my view of the night beyond. I don't stop to make sure they're dead either. Flames don't stop them on the first few feet.

Instead I make my exit, shutting the stairwell door hastily behind me and scrambling up the first flight of stairs, only now aware of the burning in my sides, throbbing in my leg, and the smell of death that surrounds this place and me. Many people have lost their lives here, and I have to be careful not to join their shambling ranks.

Unfortunately the first door up is locked and the next after that and after that. It's only at the final floor, that I finally manage to break through, panting and locking it behind me. It's quiet up here, and from either way I can see into the cloudy night outside. It's about to rain.

It's so quiet here that, as the wind whips through an open window, I can hear the rustling papers that have covered the floor and smell the earthy scent of the coming rain on the wind. I also smell rotting flesh, pungent and coming from upwind. Knowing that, I head downwind, hoping to stay well clear of the bodies I know are there. After a month stumbling into room after room of infected feeding areas, I've earned a second sense about where the corpses wind up.

There's a ghost of civilization in this building. I can almost see it. Men and women once worked here, talking on the phones and laughing with their friends until the sirens came. But they still lulled about. An evacuation was called, and they laughed it off, taking their time to check all the rooms and lock them. Each of them remains locked, each one I end up at to jiggle the handle.

And then there's the final door, at the far end of the hallway downwind. The final doorway where the floor leader was still laughing with his friends and checking the rooms. His arm still remains, shriveled and rotten, clutching the keys. The rest is all blood soaking the carpet.

I feel like throwing up, but there's something more important to do now. He died, and his killer didn't escape down the stairs. I can guess he's back upwind, feasting on the pile that has sat there long enough to rot.

But I need to be sure, so I slip my remaining pistol from its holster with my very final bullet in it. As I approach the door, still open just a crack, I lean down and slip the keys out from the hand's deathly grasp.

My pistol enters the room first, nudging the door open a smidgen at a time until I can see enough into it. It's similarly dark, lighted by windows that take up the entire wall as the hallway is. They leave an eerie grey glow on the papers that cover the floor, and in some places they shine back a dull crimson. Blood and papers aren't the only thing that's in this meeting room. There's the faint crackle of movement, and over the tip of the long table I can see the barest glint of skin.

My pain, flight, and previous worries are all suddenly gone. They're replaced by something that sucks the moisture from my throat and threatens to burst my chest in its grip. There's an aura of death here and it's sucked me in and threatens not to let me go.

The door creaks open and I take my first, and last, step in, still holding the pistol level with the creature hiding on the other side of this desk. As soon as I do, I see the thin grey hair and a face contorted in pain and suffering.

And then her crimson gaze locks on me.


	2. Out

Son of a…

It takes me a millisecond to exit the room. I don't bother with the door, instead deigning to rest against the wall outside. My breath is already in short pants, and I can feel my heartbeat in my ears.

A witch. The last time I'd come so close to one it had punched a hole through a metal door and nearly taken off Louis' head. I'm not frightened of the other zombies. Scared for my life, perhaps, but not so fucking terrified that I can't even move like I am with this one.

At least it's still quiet here, quiet enough that I can still hear the flutter of wind that drags the smell of decay and rot to my senses. After the flight I'd taken to get here, this is like sensory deprivation to me. Suddenly it's just me, my fear, and my surroundings that become all the more pronounced.

This is more than just a hallway to run and hide through. This is my tomb but not mine alone; the arm, the feeding pile, this… thing…

With enough time alone to my thoughts and the aches and pains of my body, the fear begins to lessen its grip on me. It didn't see me, it just looked through me, and that's enough to save my life for another moment longer. There're very few options for me to keep on living though. The infected have most likely broken through downstairs and are on the hunt for me, and I have my pistol clutched to my chest like a child, reminding me that I only have one bullet left in it.

One bullet may be enough to fracture its skull if I can get close enough, but that's a long shot, and one that would alert every zombie on the next three floors, at that. Ending it seems out of the question right now, which leaves me sitting quietly against the wall holding my pistol.

Why do the dead have to be such a pain?

Frustration overcomes me and I tear up, pushed against the wall with no friends and no hope. Why me is the question of the moment. Why did I have to get separated? Bill, Francis, and Louis are all long gone by now, listening to the unspoken rule of the survivors that is don't stop running.

Bill and Francis found me huddled in a closet weeks ago, handed me this pistol in my hands, and never asked more of me than to survive. I thought, I honestly thought, we would make it through this.

_No, no, no!_ I have to survive. I just have to. There's no way these zombie bastards are going to get the best of me.

I sit up a little straighter and try again to think of a way out. There's got to be a car around here somewhere, and the man who's arm lies next to me and blood touches my shoes may just be the answer. There's a good chance his ride is still in the employee parking.

That just leaves me the question of how to get there… No fire exits this far out of the city, unfortunately. So I guess I'm sneaking down through the elevator or stairs again. If I'm quiet it shouldn't matter how many zombies are flooding through the lower levels itching for a taste of my skin.

I'm not really doing this because I want to. I've just gone too far to die here in this place, even if I'd like nothing better than to just lay here and let these bastards win.

My body is sluggish as I fight to my feet, exhaustion wearing down on me even after, especially after, such a brief respite. It's time to move though, I owe myself that much, and I turn down the hall and start back up the way I came, back towards the smell of death.

And then came a sound, distant at first. I hear it as I'm leaving and it's so quiet I crane my neck in curiosity. My first thought is that it's outside, but I'm too far up for that. It's just the silence that's drawing the sound to me, but then I recognize it… A low moan that grows into a cacophony so immense that it's heard from…

_Not now..._ I plead to myself.

But it's started already. The witch is crying a long, baleful tune and already I hear its effects from the stairs I had come up.

An infected strikes the door, shattering pieces of faux wood and splinters just a few dozen feet ahead of me. _Shut up,_ I try to urge the creature with my thoughts.

But it's too late for that, and the door splinters more and more outward, followed by the raspy howl of the infected known as the hunter. There's a reason we call it that, and it's earning its name by being on the prowl even now.

I take a few steps back. There's still the one bullet in my pistol, but it's more useless as my hands. This one will be fast, far more than me, and I don't want to do anything that would wake the vengeance in the monster to my side.

Just as its shadowed form steps through the splintered remains of the door I make my decision and sidestep the hallway, hoping I was quick enough that it didn't see me. There's not much I can do if he did, and I have other problems. I'm in the lair of the beast now, the conference room that remains in a permanent state of shambles after a month of neglect. Over the table I can still see the witch, huddled forward and howling in some emotion I can't understand.

My breath refuses to come, as much from my hope that I can keep quiet enough for it not to notice me as the fear that grips my chest. My eyes refuse to stray too. I'm left tentatively skirting the wall, keeping as far from it as possible without knocking over something or making a further idiot out of myself.

To add to my problems, I hear the hunter's breath and obnoxious screech on the other side of the wall now. It's still prowling about, perhaps even hunting me specifically. I wouldn't be surprised if it bounds from the door right now to tear me limb from limb while this most feared, hated of creatures watches on.

There's a table holding a coffee machine halfway through the room. I slide down beside it after I pass, having crossed this far without turning my back on the witch. The conference table has long, slender legs and I can see it clearly now against the backdrop of the windows. I can also see the looming shadow of the hunter that's stalking me through the door just as it bursts open.

I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming or jumping. The hunter jumps in the door, screeching once more. But now I notice that the focus of its attention isn't me, but the figure huddled behind the table. The hunter realizes its mistake just as the witch turns.

There are some things I'll never forget… My first infected is one. Putting down my best friend with a computer tower is another. This, I have to add to the list. It's not the hunter though. The hunter's mouth clamps down and it turns tail and runs without another sound. It's the witch, what I had so far classified as a beast, monster, or "it."

She's younger than I am. Wide, bright red eyes set on pale grey skin. Her brows, so expressive, are slightly wrinkled and her lips are pursed like she's in pain. Deep, emotional, pain. The tears that have streamed down her face reflect the light of the cloudy night and the moon that reflects through them.

She's… Beautiful… And hurt… I feel tears streaming down my face for her, someone so young and innocent who was just at the wrong place and the wrong time and ended up like this because of it. She shouldn't be here, she should be laughing with friends and family and living a life of innocence. I don't just feel sad for her, I feel sick that she's even here.

My eyes can't seem to leave her face, but my mind wanders regardless of my attentions. Just a few days ago we had drawn straws for the fate of one such girl who sat crying in our path. Bill, valiant cheater that he is, took the short one and held the shotgun against her skull. Thinking of that I can't help but think of the man who met his fate to a stone in my hand just a bit earlier. He now lays, skull cracked open, eyes staring into the same spot unseeing. The same spot I had been standing.

I can't help it if the witch sees; acting on the impulse I turn to the side and vomit what little was in my stomach to the floor. When I come back up, wiping my mouth on my sleeve, her eyes are on me and I have to fight the urge to turn away. There's sadness and longing in that gaze, but it's primal and animalistic now. Without pause she turns away and her voice starts up again, crying once more. I can't help but think her voice would be beautiful if it did something besides cry.

I have to turn away, looking at her is too painful for me. I'll start thinking about why all this happened, and that will lead only to bad thoughts. I end up looking at the door and listening to her tears. The hunter is gone now, but I can hear his howl from somewhere down the hall. More than that, I can hear the telltale gurgle of a vomiting infected and the cough of a smoker. There's no way out anymore, no safety for me outside that door. The only reason they haven't checked in here and eaten me already is because of this girl, the same one I fear and now feel a sickening pity for.

Apparently the door is a source of poor thoughts as well, so I turn back and resign myself to my fate. I rest my pistol on my lap and settle here, looking both out the window and at the witch, the girl. Her face is sunken and dark now, but I can still see just how beautiful it once was; soft and sweet, if not a bit childish. I can picture her with freckles, and there's a bobby pin in her hair that fell out of place long ago. Blonde hair would look right on her. Blonde hair and blue eyes, maybe green.

She also seems much more alert than the other infected I've seen. I hear a smoker cough outside the door and her eyes dark up, widening just a bit, small enough that I wouldn't notice if I hadn't been staring so intently. Coupled with those sobs that speak of more than just pain, they speak of emotions too intense and innumerable for me to realize, I would say she's afraid. But she's a witch, she can't be, can she?

She doesn't answer, just returning to her huddled position, occasionally moving under the filtered moonlight to crawl further along the floor. We stay like this for a while, I forget how long, but it's long enough for the first drop of rain to hit the window and long enough for me to smell the first hint of acrid smoke. It doesn't surprise me to realize that the Molotov I threw upon my entrance spread flames throughout the lower part of the building. I can smell the corpses frying below us now, but my exits have all been thoroughly covered.

It's like some great director in the sky doesn't want his actors leaving the building so soon. I don't know, but whatever the case, at least I can't hear the infected outside the door anymore.

"Know why I'm here?" Her head darts up when I talk, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. It surprises me too, I'm not sure why I opened my mouth, and don't have a clue what possesses me to continue. "It's 'cause I was weak." Ah, I see. I'm not even talking to her, but to myself. The last straw, I guess you could say, and I've gone insane. "Sure, I talked big, but when the going got tough, I just locked up and cried, just like you."

I pause for a second, considering apologizing. She moved while I was talking, pushing further away from me until her back pressed against the windows. Now she sits, mimicking my position on the opposite side of the room. "Everyone I knew, everyone important, died while I was crying. I just wanted someone, anyone, to come and make it all go away. Protect me from the big bad monsters… And then…

"And now they're gone too. You suppose it's destiny, me meeting you?" I ask, letting out a morbid snort. Destiny… Destiny just wants to watch the world burn. She huddles back into herself and cries quietly now, and though I'm staring at her with a wide open expression on my face, tears are streaming down my cheeks and I'm crying right along with her. I'm crying for her.

The building shakes under us, nearly startling her. At first I think it's the fire eating away at the supports, but then a bellow reaches my ears. I've heard it only a few times before, less than the other telltale rattles of the other evolving infected. The tank must be inside already, busting through walls and destroying everything in its path in a hormonal rage.

Sometime, when I snuck in this room to hide, I gave up. There's no way for me to escape. Even making it through the zombies waiting outside the door, there's always the fire, or the zombies downstairs, or outside. There's always the zombies across the street or anywhere else. I guess I accepted destiny, and that's why I opened my mouth.

So has she, and yet she hasn't. She sits and cries at her fate, just like she would even if a man was standing behind her with a shotgun to her head. And yet I see the fear in her eyes as the tank smashes through yet another wall and support beam, and the entire building suddenly shifts towards her side of the room. I see fear build up inside her, and rage follow it, getting ready to make her burst and charge away on a murderous rampage.

I open my mouth to say the first thing that's on my mind, but… If I speak, it may set her off, and her eyes are already wide and wild as is. She's just too much like I was, too human despite herself, for me to leave it alone, and I feel the words slip out anyway. "Don't worry. If it's that scary, I'll protect you."

She's just too much like I was, and despite being the most terrifying creature I've ever laid my eyes on, I say those words and I mean them. All I wanted was someone to protect me until I picked up this pistol and did it myself, and I couldn't stand it if she went through the same things I did to get here tonight.


	3. Our

When I was a little girl my parents would mostly ignore me, always too busy with work or their own lives to have time for mine. It was always like that; I ended up raising myself, independent for as long as I can remember.

But then there was that one night… It was a night a lot like this, rain just starting to patter onto the windows. My parents were downstairs arguing and I was upstairs idly surfing the web and watching television. I remember it vividly because I ended up watching the first zombie I had ever seen. It was a scary, dark, hulking thing that was eating someone, and it terrified me. I don't remember screaming, but I remember hiding in my bed until my dad knocked down the door to come save me.

He didn't ignore me so much after that night. It was the night that we started getting along. In fact, it was the night he stayed up with me watching scary movies all night long. He was the first one who said those words that just slipped out of my mouth.

_"Don't worry. If it's that scary, I'll protect you."_

My heart aches just thinking about him, but he's a thousand miles away and this scared little girl is right in front of me. Her eyes are wide as they stare at me, and from what I can see the emotions hidden in their gaze range from fear to anger.

"You don't understand me, huh?" I ask dully. The tank barrels through yet another wall below us and she shirks back, looking around for something to lash out at. Since I entered this room, I've been beyond caring.

When I quiet down, she looks away and starts sniffling again. A witch's crying annoys me. Her crying annoyed me before I looked at her. Now it seems to call out to me. The first low sob that catches in her throat pleads for me to help her, even if she doesn't comprehend my presence.

Behind me somewhere, I feel the rumble of the tank reaching our floor. It's followed by the sound of metal snapping, wood splintering, and a several ton hunk of meat and muscle plowing through everything in its path. She growls softly through her tears before me, but by then it's too late for me.

I'm in a daze, shuffling out of my seat on the floor, disregarding the tender pains in my body to crawl forward, towards her. Her attention is more on the loud noises coming from outside than me, I make it under the table before she turns back and notices me.

Since the first witch I saw, I always assumed they were driven by only rage and sorrow. This, the low growl that starts slow and rises into an immense howl, isn't either. This is a panic attack, if ever there was one. Her eyes can't even comprehend me when I'm several feet away.

"It's going to be okay," I find myself saying. I say that even though the tank is no more than four rooms away now, and the smell of burning flesh is growing steadily more pungent.

The next shockwave comes from just two rooms away, and she smacks her elbow on the glass behind her trying to back up. It's getting closer, almost here, and close enough that I can feel every footstep through the carpet. From what I can tell, it's heading directly for me.

With that in mind I stand up, holding my pistol ready and facing away from the girl I seem intent to protect for no reason. She howls ever louder now, every one followed by a sharp intake of breath that can't seem to fill her lungs or calm her mind.

I've only fought a tank by myself once, and that one was small and deformed, with a larger right arm that kept hooking on things it passed. Not to mention that was with a hunting rifle from a block away. Now I face one with a single pistol and a single bullet too it. Some part of me knows there's no way, but I believe I can make this work. I can beat this thing, save the girl, and find some way to turn her normal somewhere down the road. My mind tells me that much, which shows just how far I've thought this through.

I tense, ducking down to push the table with all my might, finally budging it just as the wall explodes outwards in a cloud of plaster, splinters, and drywall. When the first breeze passes, I stand, trying not to let my throat seize under the oppressive dust and the smell that assaults me. Somewhere behind that wall is a body of corpses, and somewhere the fire has spread up through the floor and started consuming the final floor. I can tell because the smoke drifts out of the hole in waves, claiming the roof.

All of that, powerful to my senses as it is, I hardly notice. My gaze is locked defiantly on the monster before me. I've seen only a handful of tanks, but this one takes the cake by far. A single arm is longer than me, and his shoulder width alone would take up the space of the conference table before me. His entire form is fleshy and red, tinged pink where he he's been burned, and throbbing or quivering everywhere else. Most tanks are as big as cars, he's as big as a van, and I know a single finger would be enough to cave my ribs in.

Regardless, I stand defiant, looking him in the face and trying to avoid the sight of his missing mouth. It's basically just a nose with eyes, all of it blocky and engorged.

The witch screams behind me. I try to push the scenario where she goes berserk and tears me in half out of my mind, instead focusing on the imminent threat to both of us. He pauses before us, snarling through that jawless maw of his in a deep, feral growl that chills me to the bone and nearly sends the girl behind me over the edge. The door to my right is still open. I should run for it, I should leave these two behind and try to live. But a part of me knows I am trying to live, and holding my ground now is the only way to do it.

Without warning or provocation the tank jerks forward and I jump to the side, scrambling to my feet just after hitting the floor as my senses are bombarded with the sound of the table shattering a wall-long window. It flies free, straight across to the roof of the building opposite us, and my skin chills as the wind whips moisture into the room. The papers across the floor scatter in its path like a majestic field of flowers, but these wrap around the body of the massive giant approaching me, growling.

As I back up, nearly to the door, he turns his torso and his immobile head, no longer looking to me but glaring down at the figure huddled in the rain. She isn't so loud any more. She's letting out pitiful sobs intermingled by the occasional growl. And now the tank has her in his sights.

"Hey!" I shout, drawing both pairs of eyes towards me, one with a squeak, one with a snarl. "She's not the one you want. You came for me, and here I am!"

With that, I raise my pistol towards him, holding myself as tall as possible. I swear the girl's eyes widen at my words, but the tank only seems to get enraged further. But still, there's no rush, just a slow, lumbering step. He's toying with me.

The room is already leaning towards the witch, but with that step a deep crack resonates through the floors and it nearly buckles inwards. Everything suddenly shifts, everything left standing upon the tank's entrance rolls towards us. The tank takes that as the starting bell, launching towards me with arms raised. His form blots out my vision, an eclipse of muscle and death.

Acting more on instinct, I tuck and roll forward, slipping under his elbow and coming up in a flurry of water and paper. The girl shrinks back and I turn, faster than the beast even with my injuries.

One shot. That's all I have, and I make it count. It cracks through the night as lightning, deafening the world for a split second before the tank rages and the witch screams. I hit him, a beautiful shot that struck him straight in the right eye. But it's only made him angrier. And now the witch, the girl I'm foolishly trying to protect, has gone off the deep end and raises to strike me. I see her claws and the shadow the cast before seeing the bright anger in her eyes.

But my fate isn't to die here, something has made sure of that. The tank is already on his way to me, and the floor buckles once more, unseen to the witch until she finds herself swiping at air, tilted perplexingly off the edge of the building.

The entire building is falling in on itself, smoke trying vainly to rise to the heavens through the deep torrent of rain outside. I would have rather it waited another second for me to die, rather than choosing that time to fail and sending her to her doom. But I said I would protect her; it isn't her time to die again, and I'll make sure of that. That's what I think after I've already jumped, wrapping my hand around a slender ankle just before she dives five stories into a concrete floor.

"Damn it," I hiss in pain.

I'm not even thinking, but neither is the girl or the tank. The third player in this little comedy appears only as a brief flash of flesh as he tumbles over us, just shorting of crushing be on his way out the window. I see him crumple against the ground around the form of the witch I'm holding onto.

It's taken her a second to realize her position. First she stares wildly around then her gaze locks on me and she screeches, leaning up to swipe wildly with her foot-long claws. Of course the glass digging into my ribs isn't enough, throw in some deep gashes on my arms and shred my track jacket to bits as well. To make it even more fun, let her nick my jaw too.

"Stop already!" I shout over the rain. "You want to die?"

The building gives off a final shudder before I feel the floor give way and my body start to slide, showering down a rain of glass shards in my wake. It's just enough for the slick, cold skin of the girl to slip out of my grasp. It's also enough for me to follow her forcibly.

I can think of only one way to save her now. I'm still not sure why I want to, the thought hasn't crossed my mind yet. It's just something I have to do, as much as I normally have to survive or have to fight for myself. Today I have to catch hold of her during our five-story fall, spinning myself under her even while her claws swing into my flesh and the wind and rain whip into my back.

Now, falling through the rain on a dark and stormy night, I lie under the pale and beautiful witch who seems to have entwined with my destiny, ready to protect and cushion her even at the cost of myself.


	4. ZoeyWitch

Rain blends with a mix of sharp, reflective glass and odds and ends. At one point I pass through a cloud of smoke and flames fighting against the torrent and find myself face to face with a coffee mug falling parallel at the same speed as I. It proudly proclaims to belong to the World's Best Dad, and in the last few seconds I figure my life will last, I muse about who that father was and where his daughter is now.

And then it all comes crashing down. The glass shatters against the pavement. The rain pours into puddles and deep rivers flow from the gutters. And I, holding this tender girl who has yet to realize what danger she's in, but has drawn her claws in deep cuts across my back, hit and bounce off a gigantic, fleshy mass before rolling onto the pavement myself, still shielding her with my body.

The pain takes a moment to kick in, but it kicks like a mule. My shoulder popped out of place upon hitting the tank, my ribs bruise and gash further as I hit the pavement. And she never lets up clawing me until we come to a stop and I lie, spent, as the rain pours over my face. I can only sob wearily, but she stands up and her gaze flicks to the sky.

The darkness should be too much, but looking up at her I can see a glow to her eyes that gives them an ethereal quality. Her skin, too, has a glow that combats the sickly sunken sight to her. As soon as she notices the rain she seems to calm, her claws drawing inward, as if holding something close to her heart.

She's safe, for now. I lie mostly still in a pool of my own blood and decide that that's enough. There's nothing for me in this world. There hasn't been for a long, long time, and all I've been doing was telling myself that that wasn't true and running from the problem without ever looking back. But it was true, and my soul feels better having spent my last moments selflessly instead of continuing this cycle of killing for my own selfish whims. Above me, she falls to her knees and her eyes rake over my battered form for a moment.

"Get out of here, kid," I groan, sobbing once more from the pain. She doesn't seem to understand, but it feels good talking to her. "There's nothing left for you here. Go on."

Despite my urgings she huddles over my body, unaware of my presence, and starts to sniffle again. Her arms wrap around her body, and I would like nothing more than to get up and hold her, warm her as she shivers, if only I had the will or power.

But I don't. My eyes drift closed of their own accord and consciousness sneaks away from me. The pain is too much and I've lost too much blood. This time, like all the others, I have no reason to protest my death. But this time is different; this time I accept it.

I accept it and let myself dream.

The first girl I met in college turned out to be the coolest. She was younger than me, maybe a bit weird and not the perfect definition of pretty. But the only things we didn't agree on were movies. We would spend nights up together, sometimes entire weekends without being more than an arm's length apart.

I asked her out just before patient zero was discovered. I'm not sure if she really knew what I was asking, but that happy, carefree look to her made my knees want to buckle.

And then came the infection, and my words that I would stay by her side while we got somewhere safe. I must have spent too long packing, I thought, because she started knocking and knocking at my door while I was going through my clothes. I was scared, I never thought I would be just because someone was knocking at my door, but there was this feral way she was beating at it while shouting for me that made me rush to see her.

After I was done I dropped the computer and tried my best to block the sight of her lying in a pool of blood from my mind. I dropped everything and ran for my closet, closing myself up and crying tears of frustration, anger, and pain.

How could I? There was a chance, there was always a chance someone would find a cure. But to do that to her…

The pistols Bill and Francis gave me mowed them down left and right. The more of them I saw, the angrier I got. They did that to her, it was all their fault, and they deserved to pay.

It wasn't until I grabbed that rock tonight to defend myself and came up staring into his lifeless eyes that I remembered her and what I had done, what I had told myself afterwards. They're as much the victims as she was, as I am, but I swear thousands have met their ends to the barrels of my guns.

One witch may not have made any difference, but she made the difference to me. I feel like I can dream happy now. After thoughts of my past and those that have been ended by it, I find myself in an odd and nebulous dream of that girl. She's not crying anymore, she's happy, she's smiling, and it warms me so much seeing that. I want to see it again, there's nothing I wouldn't give to find that bit of heaven. And then she screams.

It pierces my skull and I splash feebly. She screams again. I manage to force my eyes open and push myself a fraction of an inch up. A hundred cuts and gashes along my back split open, but I ignore the fiery pain and search for her.

She screamed loud enough to wake me up, and I quickly find the reason why. The tank shifts. The only noise it lets off is the sound of flesh sliding across concrete; it reminds me of leather against leather. One massive, beefy hand is locked around her slender legs, and the beast draws my damsel inexorably closer to its hulking form. In her terror she slashes at it again and again, but her claws aren't nearly as effective against it as they are against me, and it refuses to budge.

Why her? It could have reached me and done away with me. It could have before, too, but this thing seems intent on doing something to this frightened creature, something I don't want to see the result of. I've mostly accepted the fact that I have to protect her, but I still don't even know why that is. What is it the tank and I see in this girl who appears so frail and broken?

I don't have time to muse on the subject. My damsel needs me, the tank doesn't seem to be letting up or letting go, and she is being drawn closer and closer, yet further and further from sanity and reason. She's like a caged animal in his grasp, and I will my body to move, will it to fight one last time.

In the puddles of broken glass, blood, and rain, my uninjured hand listens to my call and tenses. It's the slightest hint of movement at first, but soon enough it's clawing at the pavement and pulling my torso up. I rest in a sitting position for a second, glaring at the beast who's got my girl in his grip. She's stopped clawing at him, and instead scratches vainly at the concrete in an effort to stop herself.

"Let-" I gasp in pain, rising to my knees, "-her go!" The tank only briefly looks at me. I must not be enough to worry him, even in his current, immobile state. He'll regret the day he underestimated me. First I find a weapon; lying in the pool of blood and water is a piece of the window's frame. It's broken and sufficiently jagged, and I lift it in my good arm. I'm too far gone to care when the bits of glass let in it cut into my palm, it's not like there aren't another hundred cuts like that there already, one more doesn't matter.

The tank, still struggling to move its decimated legs, wouldn't care for such a cut either. Even with my weapon, my strength wouldn't allow for this to even puncture his bones, I have my doubts if it'd even break the skin. But I have to try, and instead of aiming for his unprotected head, I limp through the ankle-deep water and drive the makeshift spear down with all my might.

My target is the skin between his thumb and index, both fingers as wide and long as either of my arms. He doesn't howl, I only half expected him to, and hardly even twitches with the pole nearly a foot down into his hand. The only way I really know it punctures is when I feel the blood spurt out at me, strikingly warm compared to the cool rain. Soon I can the makeshift spear grinding between bones when his arm moves to pull the girl further towards him. But I won't have that, my hand finds hers next, still scratching wildly to get away, and I leverage myself against the beast with my feet, pulling with all my might.

Even now I can see his legs twitching. Perhaps they're mending the bones he crushed when he fell, perhaps he's just ignoring the pain to force them to move. Either way, they've been moving consistently more since I awoke, and I get the feeling they'll be far past my own running capabilities soon enough. I have to get her out, but she's slippery, more so in my loose, bloody grip than his own.

After nearly a minute of struggling under my waning strength her feet pop loose. "Run!" I yell as we both fall to a heap in the water which has raised a staggering amount since we first dropped. I instinctively flinch back to avoid her claws, but the witch and her gaze avoid me. Instead she bolts and I struggle to follow suit.

It's like wading through a pool. Something is wrong around here, I'm not sure if the drains are all blocked or what, but this place is flooding and it's getting worse and worse by the moment. It's still a bit less than a foot now, but soon it'll be too much for any car to handle, which means I have to hurry. If I don't get her out of here, she'll either drown or that thing will eat her.

But, when I exit the alley and round the corner, hot on her heels, I find her huddled in a ball, sobbing, as the deluge washes down on her. She turns to me with wide, frightened eyes when I stumble beside her. I can hardly keep my feet under me; my sides are burning, the arm I'm holding hurts like a bitch and I would do anything to get rid of the pain. Everything is cold and hot, and I feel like I would throw up again if I had anything left in me.

If this was a game of chess the zombies would have declared checkmate a turn ago. There was nowhere for me to go when I was upstairs, but at least then I didn't hurt like I was dying. But of course, I made myself a promise, even if she doesn't care, even if no one else would ever understand.

"What are you doing? Run!" She shrinks back. I fear I've broken her though, looking over me her expression hasn't changed at all since we first met, it's still full of fear and misplaced, misunderstood anger, but there's no screaming rage anymore. She seems calm, if not fearful, for the first time.

Still, she doesn't move, and I can't have that. I move forward, wrap a hand around her bony arm, and pull, forcefully dragging through the water with her in tow. I'm all too surprised when I find myself alive long enough to cross the side of the adjacent building towards employee's parking. Behind us the building shudders one last time, flames shooting out from all sides, and collapses inwards.

Even through the rain I can hear the sob that escapes her throat. It's odd how she doesn't scream or go back to crying, it's more a sob of denial. And when she had collapsed just now she was looking at the flames coming out of the building. I'll muse on that later too, I think as I drag her with me. She's also surprisingly easy to pull, she must not even weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet.

Finally she seems to realize her position and react, swiping once with her free hand. I feel the claws rake across my shoulder, opening yet another deep gash in my body. I must have at least one on ever limb. I must be losing blood like crazy. I won't be surprised even if I collapse after another foot or die in a few seconds, but something draws me forward. It's a truck, a single, solitary truck lying in the parking lot. It embodies escape and safety for the both of us. I just need to get there and get her into it.

But she seems resistant to her needs, and as soon as her claws connect to my arm and I release her with a pained sob, she digs her feet into the water and refuses to budge. I look at her for a second, I can tell how close she is to snapping again just by the wild look to her face. Then I look up, back the way we came and the alley near the collapsed building that burns ever brighter.

I hope I'm making the right choice. It feels too much like a gamble, but one with no other options besides dying here and now.

I leave her. It may be selfish of me, but it's necessary. I nearly collapse to my knees when I pass over the next sidewalk and into the parking lot. The sudden dip and rush of water takes me off balance, but I ignore it and push ever harder towards that truck.

If I was any smarter, I would know that this isn't my best option. I pull out my remaining pistol as I near and smack it against the Ranger's driver window, driving the butt of the pistol down again and again with the last of my dying strength. The odds that this won't trigger an alarm are a long shot. The odds that this thing can even move or fight the flood are a long shot. The odds that I can even get it started are practically infinitesimal.

No, I just have to believe and pray and drive the pistol down with all my force one more time. The window cracks under the force, just a long, jagged line that runs its length. The next hit knocks it inwards a centimeter. At least I'm getting somewhere. Finally, after another half a dozen strikes, it busts inwards with a chorus of broken glass and I throw my pistol into the seat and unlock the door. Just slipping inside it makes me feel all that much better, and that much worse. It feels a dozen degrees hotter in here, but without the numbing rain the cuts in my back and legs flare up as soon as they hit the seat.

My heart sinks as soon as I take a look around. I knew this was a Ranger, but I didn't know this was a new one. These things suck with their electronic keys. Francis could crack this thing, but I don't have a bat's chance in hell.

Keys, I need keys, but I can't find them anywhere. I search the mirrors, glove boxes, CD holders, change and trash holders. I come up frustrated, cold, hurt, and more than anything else, angry.

"Fuck!" I scream, bashing my head against the steering wheel.

Outside, the pavement shakes, bouncing the truck and forming a great wave in the water that splashes against the door. It's time. I just hope I made the right choice. All I can do is open the door and pray to whatever gods are listening once more.

Every move that monster makes is on its fists, slamming them into the ground one by one as if they were feet. Every time it sends out a shockwave, propelling the water along and splashing it up into the cab with me. It doesn't take long before he emerges from the alley, snarling and back in action. It takes the girl a little bit longer to notice him.

She looks up and freezes, I can just imagine her eyes widening and jaw hanging open. But her back is to me and all I can see is her sitting in the middle of the flood.

"Run, you idiot, run." I urge quietly. Where would this person keep spare keys to his truck?

The tank roars, splashing once more in the water. It hits the witch in a wave, finally setting her off once more. I hardly notice her moving, just hearing the random shouts of nonsense through the rain as she rushes to the truck and dives in. I'm taken off guard immediately. I had expected something like her hiding in the bed of the truck, but she dives right into the cab and burrows beneath my legs, pushing me further into the seat.

"Decided to join me after all?" I ask as I pull the door closed as quietly as possible. That beast is still lumbering closer in the mirror, but now my girl is in here with me and I feel a bit safer.

It's only when she pushes against me again that I hear the jingle of keys.


	5. Community

At first I look under the girl, ignoring her vocal protests in the form of a hiss and a snarl. I don't have time to be coy with her; the tank may be a slow, lumbering brute still, but I don't trust him to stay that way for long. The image of his legs mending under him is still fresh on my mind.

The floorboard is empty. So is the seat under me. She might have them, maybe in her pockets or something, but that doesn't make much sense. She's too young to be driving, especially with a truck this new. The only explanation I can think of is it belonging to…

The floor leader who was assigned to lock up. Of course, why didn't I think of that before? Right, a witch, a popped shoulder, and a few tons of tank.

Below me the girl wails feebly, as if she can't decide whether to burst into more tears or start snarling again. She seems to have deemed me the lesser threat and still quivers between my legs and the floor. It's a bit odd to think about; the survivor-proclaimed witch has long since been one of our greatest enemies, no one ever lived to tell the tale after getting close. And now here's one hiding under my legs. Who knows how this will end up.

That's why I force the thoughts out of my mind, I can't afford to let self doubt ruin me, not with the beast in my mirror getting closer. I pull the keys from my pocket, all of it sopping wet, and lift them in shaking hands to determine which one might work. There it is, the proud Ford logo that I've been searching for on the first one I find. The problem is my hands are refusing to listen to me.

I never noticed how cold I was until now, the numbing effects of the night's rain was just so comfortable to my battered body. My skin has taken on a purple and pink hue from deep within, as much from blood loss as cold, I would guess. My fingers feel bloated and stiff, refusing the most simple commands, and I'm nearly on the verge of fainting. Only an alert mind is keeping me this active, an alert mind and the promise to protect this girl.

That's what I have to think of, that single moment that has turned into a mission for whatever reason, so I think of her when I try over and over again to shove the key in the ignition and start this infernal truck. I shove the girl between my legs, ignoring her howl and the defensive gash she leaves in my calf, and slam my foot on the gas pedal even before I've managed to turn the key through my tremors.

I look in the mirror just in time to see a giant hand smash into the tailgate of the truck. I don't have time to ready myself and my good hand slips trying to prop myself up. My head hits the steering wheel hard, I hardly feel the pain but I feel my nose fill with blood automatically and stars swim into my vision. The truck roars to life around me, the witch screams between my legs and hides further into the seat, and the first thing we do is cut through the water and jump the curb, slamming me up and down further.

Death would have been so much simpler. A death through torture would have been less painful. Have I ever been the one to take the easy way out? I could have just lived at home, maybe gone to a community college or bummed off my parents for all I care. But here I am in the middle of Ass-Crack Pennsylvania feeling like I just got done with a leisurely ride through a rock tumbler filled with shards of glass. My ever-personable charge howls under me as we turn onto the road. I can barely keep the truck under control as is, I can't be bothered to worry about her gutting me now. That's why I let her out from between my legs and let her jump about in the cab.

It doesn't take her long to remind me why I feel the need to protect her in the first place. She comes at me when she realizes there's nowhere to go, digging her claws deep in my tattered jacket and shoving her head between my breasts. She doesn't impale me, and chooses this one and only time not to cut me to shreds. Just buries her head there and sobs into my ribs while I try to keep my attention on the road.

I can't be bothered to turn on the lights with the infestation still rampant around here. Most the time I can't even see the road under the flood of water beneath us, just the buildings and occasional sign or corpse floating by. All I can be thankful for is that the tank disappears from our mirror and the truck runs fine on road or sidewalk, whatever I'm driving on now.

It takes a while and a lot of splashing, but soon the road starts to incline and the rain starts to ebb. The infected I see out the window as we're driving are all headed towards the light and tower of smoke that's left from the building we had evacuated, like a giant fly zapper on the horizon. I'm thankful that building was good for something, I have less to worry about here when all the zombies wind up drowned or running the other way.

Finally my worry can be put to more important things, like fixing my arm before it's permanently disabled, or fixing my back before I really do bleed to death instead of crying about it. Maybe fixing some morphine into my veins so I can get these damn tears out of my eyes and the occasional sob of pain from my throat. I feel like shit and the way things are heading, I'm going to break down and never be able to get back up again. I have to do this now, I can't put it off another second at this rate.

With little warning I veer the truck off the road, confident that there're no swarms of zombies behind the little gas station I've found myself at. I haven't gone that far, it's still an industrial little part of town filled with warehouses and truck stops, but I've put off myself long enough already.

She- I still need to find out her name- whimpers and looks up when we slow to a stop, just her, me, and the pounding rain now. I hardly even noticed the hold she's had me in during the drive, but now I'm thankful for the presence at my side. My hand wraps around her and pulls her tighter, and I move both of us so I can check the glove box for anything useful.

All I find is a flare and a road map, of which I take the flare. Behind the seat is nothing but a jack and a spare tire, and she hisses at the sudden movement but I manage to look around her under the seat and finally, finally find something real good. A little first aid kit; nothing fancy, but it'll do.

"Come on," I call, half pushing, half kicking the door open and pulling her out into the rain. I should know by now not to do things like that, but sometimes I can be a bit dense. I'm not mad when one of her claws rakes its way out of my grip and down my arm, just frustrated at myself.

"My mistake," I manage to cough through the pain, letting her back up into the far corner of the truck and shiver. The door swings shut behind me and I force my body to keep moving, kicking through the ankle-deep rivers of water that flow through the lot until I push through the front doors to the gas station. It's long since deserted, long since empty, but it's dry and I'm free from prying eyes, or fangs, I should say. I can't see much, but I can tell all the shelves are empty, the stands are gone, and even the counter has been wiped clean. It's like they've moved out or are renovating, but the smell of death lingers here and the pain reminds me just how wrong that assumption would be.

My ruined jacket slips from my back as I stumble through the station, making sure nothing has been left for me behind the counter first. It seems I used all my luck just getting this first aid kit, everything has been stripped bare. At least the floor seems smooth enough for me to get rid of these shoes. They're sopping wet and seem to weigh twenty pounds each, but god damn does it hurt trying to take them off. My fingers are too numb and twitchy to pull the strings and the cuts my precious witch left in my calves make kicking them off a more painful ordeal, even without my bad leg.

Feeling a dozen pounds lighter and just as cold, I manage to shuffle into the back of the store and into the bathrooms. It's a small, one stall thing, one stall that I check out of habit as soon as I enter, but the mirror I need is in one piece.

Then the bathroom door slides shut and I find myself in pitch black. My first morbid thought is that I should be afraid right now, standing in no light in a zombie apocalypse when I have a history of claustrophobia and nyctophobia. That same morbid train of thought reminds me to be afraid later when I don't feel like so much shit, and is followed by me cracking the road flare and bathing the room in a dull red glow.

"Now for the easy part," I mumble, nearly collapsing against the sink to talk to my sunken, sickly face. God I look like shit. With all the grace of a zombie I start to strip out of my soaked clothes, sobbing and nearly screaming every time a tender piece of flesh is brushed against or pulled. Basically, crying like a bitch every time I move, really.

Just as my pants are collapsing into a pile at my feet the door creaks and I freeze. The red light is throwing off my senses, but I can see a small beam of filtered moonlight from the front striking the wall from where the door is opening.

My breath hitches. I'd love to say it's just the wind or something, but it's opening with a slow, methodical purpose. Maybe gravity, I try to convince myself, but I heard the thing click closed.

With fear pushing away the pain for a bit I turn away from the sink to face whatever has me cornered.


	6. The Beautiful Ones

The first thing I notice is skin that should look pale and white. Instead it's tinged with red from my light and blue from the cold. Not the ugly grays, rotting browns, and bloody reds of a common infected. Besides that are the long claws, each nearly a foot long and positioned above her head, clicking across the door in an eerie rhythm as she opens it, and the long, drenched white hair that hides her face, cute as that face may be.

After a second I relax and nearly collapse. She nearly scared the crap out of me, but just standing that long feels like the wind was knocked out of my lungs, and my arm and legs are shivering from the lack of energy.

"I thought you were going to wait in the car," I moan sarcastically, trying my best to sound like this wasn't an apocalypse and I wasn't in here to bandage a hundred wounds. To my immediate surprise, the girl lets off an unintelligible murmur, almost a whisper, before moving to the ground in the corner. It's almost as if she answered me, but that moment is lost when she starts whimpering once more, hiding her face from the light the flare is letting off.

I'll have to do something about her, something to make her- no, help her- stop crying. Why? The question returns to my mind, but I push it away. There are more important things right now, like standing naked in a gas station bathroom with a shoulder nearly twice the size it should be.

I look back to the mirror, running my decent hand over the tender flesh where the head of the humerus, the bone in my upper arm, had been popped all the way out of the joint. This isn't some little thing, I'll be feeling this for the rest of my life, even if I manage to pop it back in fine. Just like the tear in my calf that's given me a permanent limp and the permanent crook in my once dainty nose.

The problem is that I have to pop it back in fast, and from what I've heard and seen it hurts like a bitch, bad enough to make a grown man faint. If I faint, the bleeding from my back and lack of food for the last several days will mean the end of me.

"Death would be so much easier, you know." I mutter, loud enough for the girl in the corner to stop her sobbing and turn to me. I'm not looking at her, I'm looking at the sunken depths of my eyes, darkened with lack of sleep, a pain that feels like a distant memory now, and the knowledge that death stands not a foot away from me, just waiting for his moment to take me. I can't remember what it's like to be tired and know I can just lay down and rest.

"But if I die… I can't just leave you to look out for yourself now, can I?" A smile, it seems like the only thing I can give her. Well, that and a show of me in my birthday suit, but I'm not exactly the picture of beauty at the moment. "Thank you."

That's all I say. She followed me here, not to strike me down, not to call a hoard of zombies on me, just to be with me for whatever reason. Maybe it's some apology for the most recent cut on my arm or she's just lonely, but because she's here with me I have a reason to keep on living for these next few seconds.

So I do what I have to, I grasp my elbow and push up with all my might before the pain can hit me… And promptly pass out.

It's not long, only a blackout that lasts long enough for me to bash my head on the sink and collapse into a sobbing heap on the cold tiles. At first it's just a noiseless choking noise, the pain paralyzes me so much I can't even speak. Lights flash into my vision, white hot motes that strike into my brain while I arch my back and squirm on the floor.

As soon as I can speak again I do, cursing all that's high and mighty, screaming into my soggy clothes, bawling my eyes out. I'm not built for this, I'm not some super soldier that can ignore pain so bad. The louder I get, the more the witch howls at me. It would be a blessing if she put me out of my misery now, it'd also be a blessing if she would just shut up.

Minutes pass while I sob into my torn, soaked jacket. Finally I roll onto my back and take a deep breath, pushing the pain as far from my mind as I can. It would have been worth it if only I had managed to set my arm, but the pain from every twitch tells me I haven't. That means I need to try again. I'm not strong enough to try again. Physically, mentally, I'm just not strong enough.

But she's here. She's so close to me and I have to protect her. Every fiber in my being is resonating pain and that one, single objective. Protect her. Help her. If it wasn't for her, I would have died in that fire, crushed by a tank. If it wasn't for her, I would die here, crying tears of pain into my jacket.

But I can't go on like this. I need to rest my weary limbs; I need to be held and think every thing is going to be alright.

"Hey, baby?" I mutter, drunk on pain. "Do you think you could do me a favor?"

Rolling to my knees is a painful, slow ordeal. The pain strikes my arm, the cut on my other arm, the cuts on my calf, even my bum ankle. When the muscles on my back stretch, the dried blood cracks open painfully and seeps down my naked back from the wounds she had left there. It all hurts so much, so much that the pain dulls into a fog in my mind that keeps me from feeling any one thing specifically. So I crawl, feebly, across the floor to where she sits, hiding in the darkness. Her howls have once more quieted to a mere whimper, quiet enough that she hears me approaching and looks up with those wide, crimson eyes.

I approach as quietly as I can, trying not to startle her. As comfortable as she looks, and as much as I need someone, anyone, to help me get through this, I did enough damage to our tender relationship out in the truck. My good arm has barely stopped bleeding from that.

"Hi," I say, just a foot away from her, smiling widely. My eyes must be puffy and red, caked with dried tears and blood. I don't care, neither does she. Her eyes are as red as mine, and I'd like to get something out of her besides crying. That might make me feel better, and I think she would be even more beautiful if she smiled.

She flinches back when I reach out, slowly grasping her hand. Everything about me is slow, and I can't say it has nothing to do with me being on my last leg of energy as to not startle her any more. At first she growls, a low snarl that comes from deep in her throat. But my eyes find hers again and my gaze holds her beautiful, crimson eyes in check. She doesn't look down as my fingers link with hers, doesn't look away when we hold hands down near our knees and my thumb runs slow, soothing circles over hers.

Her breath catches in her throat. I lean forward. There are just a few inches between us now and I can smell her under the oily rainwater. She has the distinct smell of a witch, like sweat, old sugar, sex, rain, and an undertone of crackers. Not exactly the most romantic scent, but most of my sense of smell was burned off by a poorly placed grenade and a boomer weeks ago.

"Can you hold me, for just a while?" I whisper. My throat is dry and cracked, but my voice is a soft whisper hardly enough to reach her ears.

Most surprisingly, she's stopped crying and just sits there, staring at me as I close in more and more. My head brushes past hers and rests on a slender shoulder. She's bonier than I expected, all soft and wiry muscles that seem too shocked to be tense at me. It feels good though, soft skin and the barest hints of clothing against my unclothed wounds. It feels so good that my eyes close out of reflex and I envelop her further in a hug, releasing her hand to wrap my arm around her waist.

"You don't have to cry." The words escape me, from my broken lips into the nook of her neck. I'm too tired, too hurt to know what I'm saying. Maybe this is my death? "This world might look like a big, scary place. And it is. But you're stronger than that, stronger than me." Why am I crying? "All I can do is run and kill. Kill all these people who had this shit forced on them. But you… You can live, you can live like this and make a life for yourself where I couldn't.

"Just don't give up. Please, don't give up." She doesn't understand me, doesn't understand my tears any more than I do. It sounds like something I should be saying to myself, and maybe it is. But the truth just makes the tears well up and pour out faster. I can't make a life for myself out here. There's nothing left for me anymore, no goofy Francis to protect, no sweet Louis or kindly Bill. They're gone, just like my girlfriend and my family, and there's no chance of bringing them back or finding someone else to fill the void.

After a few minutes I realize I'm still attached to her and she still hasn't killed me. My tears dry to an occasional sniffle and I finally manage to pull back far enough to look at her. If anything at least I made her stop crying, now she just looks uncomfortable and confused.

"Sorry," I mumble, my eyes drifting closed. "I'm sorry that I can't help you anymore."

I want nothing more than for her to run off and heed my words. I want her to go and just leave me here so she doesn't have to watch me die, cold, naked, and pathetic. I want her to live and be happy, and a part of me still wants to help her.

Just as I fall unconscious I hear a sound. I'm not sure what it is, maybe the door closing by the wind or something pushing it. Whatever it is, it clicks shut and the noise makes a little ping in my otherwise silent coffin.

Whatever it was, I don't have time to think on it when I find myself rudely awakened by her scream and the floor suddenly rising to meet me. She shoved me. That's all I'm positive about when I blink to clear my eyes and look across the bathroom floor under the dying flare light. She threw me.

When I look back I find her clawing futilely at the corner of the room, ripping apart tiles in her quest to escape our little room. I might as well open the door for her before I die.

That in mind, I push myself to my knees and instantly realize my mistake. I somehow managed to forget about my arm, only to find myself waiting for the pain to hit me when I see my injured side's hand pressed against the tiles. Then I hear a pop. Nothing major, nothing earth shattering, just a little pop and the sudden feeling that a hundred thousand little pins are pricking at my side and the pent up energy is arcing up my spine.

I hold my hand up, still wet from being outside, dirty, grimy, and bloody, but when I try, each finger moves one after the other. Then my wrist swivels, my elbow moves, the witch tears at the wall, and my shoulder- well it hurts, but it still moves.

And just a few seconds ago I was getting ready to lie down and die. Now I just feel silly.


	7. By Request

I'm weak when I get to my feet. I've been losing too much blood and there isn't anything in my stomach to replace it. It makes standing hard, much harder than it has to be, but I have to do this. My survival, if not my immediate survival, relies on this act.

"Baby," I start, edging myself closer to the winding ball of limbs and claws that's taken off a good layer of grout and tile from the wall. Baby. I called her that just a few minutes ago, and just now, and both times I haven't really thought about what I was going to say or what I was saying. It just sort of rolls off my tongue, but it fits. "It's okay, calm down."

Whether she heard me or not doesn't seem to make any difference. She's still clawing at the wall, screaming that oddly bird-like witch scream, when I reach her. Maybe it's not the smartest thing I've ever done, but the only way I can think of to draw her attention is to touch her. I probably should have thought farther, I realize as I rest a hand on the first thing I can reach, her closer shoulder. I barely manage to flinch back as her claws cut through the air in front of my face, just an inch away from permanently blinding me.

"Easy." I try to soothe. Now that she's whirled on me I can see her from up close without the pain and fatalism clouding my mind.

Her eyes are wide, that's the first thing I notice. It's odd- in the right lighting I've seen them as crimson or blood red, but now, in this low, red light, they appear black as night yet terrifyingly affixed on me. She could be looking at her toes for all I know, but this presence that grips my chest, I just know it's from being the focus of her rage.

Not rage- fear. Had I ever bothered to learn about witches, I might have known this before now. They're not terrifying creatures that rage and kill all who stumble upon them. They're frightened, in pain, or just want to be left alone. From the creases in her eyebrows, to the way her face seems to twitch every time the wind howls beyond the door, to the short, huffing, pants of breath that come from her lungs; I can tell this isn't a beast before me.

What I feel for her as I watch her ready to attack me isn't fear or worry. It's far closer to pity or pain. It pains me that she is like this, a broken psyche instead of the girl I desperately want her to be. I frown, but I hold my ground. Her hands have raised to strike me, shoulders bunched in a very odd and threatening gesture; a scare tactic from a frightened prey. Still, I don't move.

"Are you okay?" I ask quietly, calmly.

Her howl lowers into a growl, her panting ebbs slightly. I can guess that her eyes are darting about by the way her head twitches from side to side every few seconds.

"There's nothing there, you're safe," I'm sure she can see that already. She finally seems to realize that after we've been standing in this awkward position for nearly a minute. It's a bad time for the cold to get to me, but it is nighttime, this tile is cold, and I've just realized that I've been standing in front of this girl sopping wet and nude. Great, now I'm not only cold, but I'm self conscious as well.

Still, I can't move less I spook her any more. I'm just lucky that she spooked herself the first time, leaning against the door until it clicked shut. If it was an infected or something, I'd never get her calm.

Finally her arms drop, and slowly her posture dwindles. When she isn't trying to make herself look menacing she seems timid, and she is, always huddled down or bent low, I feel like if she's shorter than me and I doubt that's true. Younger, definitely, but I've never been a tall one.

I can't help but stare at her while I have the chance. Though she's still tense, she is somewhat calm enough for me to keep this close to her without worrying about my own life, not that I've been doing a great job worrying about it in the first place. It's an ample opportunity for just looking at her though, and she is, without a doubt, the cutest girl I've ever seen in my life. There's still a sunken, hollow look to her and she seems about thirty pounds lighter than she should be, but underneath that matted hair and lit only by the dying torchlight is a beauty that I can hardly take my eyes off of.

"You're okay." I assure her. Finally I let off the breath I've been holding and all at once my legs buckle beneath me. It was exhausting just holding myself up like that, but I couldn't risk falling before she was calmed. She shrinks back when I hit the floor though, and I worry more about her than the fact that I can't really feel my limbs anymore. "You're okay," I repeat, gasping for air around my words.

To be honest, I'm not against being huddled into a ball right here. I've never felt quite as naked as I did standing before her in the nude while those eyes were on me. Her gaze, when filled with rage, is absolutely terrifying, almost paralyzing. While I struggle to get my limbs moving the bathroom fills with silence once more, no more destroyed walls to distract me. I only notice later, much later in fact, that for once there isn't any crying either. I've left her alone and all she does is stand there, perhaps confused, perhaps sated.

Either way it's onto other things, like patching myself up. I have to crawl to get anywhere now, across the floor and back to the sink where the little red first-aid kit sits in a pile of my clothes. My arms barely have the strength to open the zipper that keeps it closed, but finally I manage to pull it apart and find the bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandages. Compared to the pain I subjected myself to just a bit ago, or even dislocating my arm in the first place, rubbing alcohol doesn't seem so scary to me. It may just be the thing I need to keep myself alert, I think as I pop the top off, take a quick swig that burns the back of my throat, and pour the rest out over my back and arms.

I definitely underestimate it. For one thing, it's not pain like a broken arm, it doesn't hurt all the way to my bones and through. Alcohol is pain like burning, like I'm singeing my flesh off or cutting below my skin with a hot knife. It gets in and under my cuts and just burns and burns until I'm shaking and biting my lips so hard blood spurts out just to keep from wailing pathetically in front of Baby. When even that doesn't help I collapse closer to the slick floor and chomp by teeth down onto the wet fabric of my ruined jacket.

God it burns. I gasp.

The pain doesn't leave, but I managed to get through the first wave without screaming in agony like I wanted to. With it still burning beneath my flesh I move onto the next step, pulling out the fresh bandages and starting on my injuries. A bit of Neosporin comes out shakily on the parts I can reach, the cuts that Baby left on my wrists and calves and the minor wounds around my ribs. Hardest for me are the gashes she left in my back; they're awkward to bandage and I can't do anything to really clean them besides pouring alcohol haphazardly.

It takes me a while to finish, but I'm finally the least bit sure that I'm not bleeding to death anymore. I've got to keep moving though, I can't feel my limbs and my skin is turning an odd hue even in this light. The light isn't holding up either. I can't stop here.

I bundle up the wet clothes under my arm and crawl out, hardly managing to reach the door handle to open it. Before I leave I turn to my silent companion and say; "I'll be outside if you need me."

Her eyes, they're still unsure, untrusting. What I see in them turns to me when I speak and watches me closely, but despite her mistrust she still hasn't tried to kill me. I smile at her in reply, something that is hopefully disarming, and work up the pride to limp away rather than crawl. It only lasts a few steps, I'm far too weak to be walking anymore, but it's enough that she doesn't see me on my knees again.

Survival right now entitles food. I need energy and I need it desperately; all I've had for nourishment in what seems like weeks was a can of warm cola the other day. It's still dark out when I crawl my way back into the storefront, and my flashlight is god knows where, but my adjusted eyes can make everything out from the dim light of the moon through the rain alone. It's not looking good, there isn't a thing on the shelves and the only thing behind the counter, something I had noticed before in the smell, is a long stripped corpse that had tried to hide beneath the register.

I crawl my way further behind the counter, eventually leaving the convenience store portion of the station and entering the employee area and stockroom. I can see around here just barely through the light of an oddly placed skylight above the employee's break room. It's just enough for me to catch my bearings.

The stockroom is immediately to my right as I enter, taking up the portion of the building behind the register area. To my left, around the jutted area that holds the bathrooms, is a shoe that seems attached to a leg that no longer has the ability to move. Normally I would be disgusted by such a thing, corpses like this one and the one behind me, but there are limits to how much I can care when I'm hungry, and I am absolutely starving. To starve like this is to feel that anything in the world is edible, just the colors themselves are enough to bring to mind food.

Reality is a trickster like that. Despite ample time searching the stockroom I come out nearly empty-handed. Shelves that once held extras for candy, food, drinks, and more have been stripped bare even here. It looks like rats got into bags lying about on the floor, though the tracks of blood suggest a wayward infected. Nothing has been left there but the occasional piece of dry cat food. The one thing I do find is on the bottom shelf at the very back, hidden in a dusty corner where no one would look for or care about it.

One single tin of wet cat food. I might as well just admit that there isn't a shred of humanity left in me, I think as I settle down with the object outside the stockroom. Even as I think that and muse on my fate, staring down to the stoic metal pull-tab cap, the door beside me clicks open and I look up. I'm still unclothed, much dryer now, but the way I'm sitting up against the wall gives me a bit more modesty in front of Baby.

"Hi," I whisper as she enters. She has her timid face on, sniffling like a scolded child, but still short of the wails she's used to. There's something curious to her face too, like she's interested in what I'm doing.

And for a second, just a second, I hear a little mumble out of her that sounds almost like a reply. Almost like she's saying hello to me in response.

I have to smile as I turn back to the round object in my hand. That reminds me, and I pop the cap on it with shaking fingers. _Even bashing skulls in with a jagged rock…_ I lift the mess to my nose and sniff, oddly enough I smell her and her unique scent rather than the cat food. It looks like chicken salad though, or those nasty sandwiches I never eat, maybe I'll be lucky and it'll taste like that.

_Even if I eat cat food in the nude huddled up against a wall…_

I scoop a bit out with my fingers, but just a bit isn't enough for me. I end up with nearly a hand full, staring down at it readying myself to take the plunge. Just looking at it I should be disgusted, but I'm salivating now and my stomach is growling. After just a few seconds I can't take it anymore and I stuff it into my mouth and swallow. Just a second later I gag and hear a giggle to my side.

_As long as I protect her, I'll always be human…_


End file.
